


Guns For Hands

by DeadPoets_Darlings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depressed Sam Winchester, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Sam at Stanford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadPoets_Darlings/pseuds/DeadPoets_Darlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester is finally at Stanford and out of hunting. Only now he's unable to drown out the things he's been hiding for so long</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guns For Hands

**Author's Note:**

> this is based off of my own experiences with depression and self-harm as well as my own thoughts and ideas about Sam
> 
> The title is a Twenty One Pilots song
> 
> Comments and Critiques are very welcome!

Sam was numb.

It seemed he was always numb nowadays.

He was just going through the motions-getting up every morning, going to class, coming back to his room, doing his assignments, repeat-but he couldn't remember really  _doing_  any of it. He felt like he was staring at a screen, watching some mundane scene unfold in front of him over and over in a repetitive nightmare.

Sam figured he should talk it out with someone; figure out just what the hell was wrong with him, because he was pretty damn sure most people didn't go through their lives living in a fog of quiet and a white noise machine of dullness.  _What would be the point? It's always been this way and why bother changing it now?_ But, by some miracle, Sam had managed to work up enough energy everyday to maintain a constant A and B average in school. He needed to keep good grades to keep his full ride scholarship, after all, and if he lost that… Well he didn't know what would happen. Fighting past the blankness and the dimness that seemed to cling to every inch of his body, inside and out, he wrote papers and did group projects with a hard smile plastered onto his face. If he seemed fine, no one would ever try and look past the surface. 

No one would know. 

Most nights he laid in his bed, eyes fixed on the patterns etched into the popcorn ceiling and thought about Dean and his dad and all the times they spent pouring over books and pulling all nighters in low-budget motels. He wouldn't say he missed it, but it was always easier to keep his mind off of the overwhelming numbness when he had adrenaline and alcohol rushing through his veins. But he chose Stanford and the path to becoming a lawyer instead, but all of this bullshit he was feeling was not in the orientation presentations.

"Fuck it all." Sam whispered to his ceiling as he turned onto his side and forced his eyes shut and his limbs still. If he could just lie completely still for a while, maybe he could fall asleep tonight and make it through one more day.

 

*

It was getting worse.

Almost near the end of the semester and he'd started slipping, losing himself in the endless abyss of this nameless  _thing_. He was missing classes more and more, and suddenly all the numbness was being replaced by pain. Every joint creaked and his back had a constant ache nestled in a place he couldn't reach, couldn't work out the kinks and have peace if even for a few moments. He was always tired, downing cups of coffee and energy shots whenever he had the chance and barely ever feeling the motivation to leave his dorm room. He was still keeping his grades up, they were after all the only thing that still held any importance to him, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could do it.

He found himself eyeing the scissors in his supplies organizer, and they suddenly held a new sort of allure to them. Never before had he thought of  _that_ , the possibility of going there. 

He must be going crazy.

The stress of his environment was finally getting to him. That had to be it.

Sam laughed to himself. All those years of hunting, of literally risking his life every day, and he was being beaten by something as simple as a report paper. Sam was not unfamiliar with pain, hell he probably had more scars and broken bones than anyone else on the planet, but he'd always been able to down some pain pills or some whiskey before being patched up by Dean in a dirty motel bathroom. This pain was different, and no matter how many pills he took or how much alcohol he drank could dull that constant soreness all over his body. But the thoughts still crossed his mind, that maybe he could feel  _something_ , maybe he could deter the ache from inside his body to a place he could see, a place he could control. Maybe this could be something to consider, something to make him feel real and not floating above himself, watching himself rot away from the inside.

Sam sighed, rubbed his neck in some attempt to ease the knots building up and tossed the scissors into a drawer where he couldn't see them anymore.  _Haven't gone there before, not going there now._

 

*

Sam was failing

Midterms were fast approaching and he just didn't care anymore. He hadn't been to class in a week and had instead been at his laptop, staring at the screen listening to some CD he found in the back of his closet. He nods his head to the beat, liking the way his whole body has become intertwined with the music, and it reminds him of singing along in the Impala with Dean to those old rock songs their dad loved. Sam clenched his fists, his nails biting into the palm of his hand and his whole body calmed for a brief moment, before the pain returned and brought him down again. The CD ended, but Sam only pressed play again. He sang along quietly and pretended to hear his family's voices joining in. 

All the noise in his head quiets, but only until the song ends.

Sam spends more time singing and dancing in the dark of his dorm room than he does studying. He spends his money on more music instead of scantrons for his exams. He fixed some of his grades, they're not A's, but they're better than before. He pretends not to notice the concerned emails from his professors asking where he's been and just turns up the volume.

He never studied anymore; just listened to whatever played in his headphones and nodded along. He was as close to happy as he'd ever felt, and he no longer thought about the scissors in his desk drawer quite as often. His life became just one euphoric verse after the other and it was fucking great.

Sam thought he was doing okay.

 

*

Sam failed his midterms, at least the ones he showed up for.

His professors assure him it's not that big of a deal that he can make up for it with extra assignments or doing well the rest of the semester. He can still pass if he works hard enough. Sam  _failed_.

And now there was this gross feeling inside of him that the word  _failure_  was being etched further into his skin with each encouraging word someone gave him. Every friend that told him "it's gonna be okay" makes the cut go deeper, and the words became more like slashes, leaving welts with every ounce of concern they were made of. 

Sam was not okay.

He didn't listen to music anymore. He let the silence consume him in the dark of his room. He didn't deserve to feel good, he'd decided. He deserved to feel this hurt, this aching disappointment in himself and all he'd been trying to achieve. Sam wasn't worth it anyway; he was only taking up space.

Sam reached for the drawer, hands shaking.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated! Please tell me what you think!
> 
> I might add more in the future, including adding dialogue and other characters.


End file.
